Without
by exilevilify
Summary: An injury America received in Vietnam is taking longer than usual to heal, and he is worried about the implications. RusAme.


_"What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all."_

_-Barbara Kingsolver_

**25th February 1969**

* * *

"Hold still, Alfred."

"Don't push so hard!"

"I'm hardly touching you."

"It's sensitive, Arthur…_ouch._"

"Sorry," England murmured, tracing the hollow around America's eye more gently. "Are you sure you want the bandages, though?"

"_Yes_," America said. "I'm not going out without them."

England sighed and picked up the roll of gauze from the bedside table. "Then sit, and don't move – I mean it this time."

He guided America to the edge of the bed and set him down. America made a frustrated noise and knotted his hands in his lap, twitching when England pushed his hair back and began to wrap the gauze in thick strips around his head and over his eyes. "Dark," he said.

"You never liked it," England replied, smoothing the sterile white over America's milky eyeballs; his glasses were already off to the side, they had been since England entered the room.

America bit his lip and breathed out thinly. "It shouldn't even be like this."

"I can't pretend I'm not worried as well," England said.

"I mean – it was three days ago! I should be healed by now, right?"

"You weren't directly attacked?"

"No."

England secured the bandages in place and checked their strength. Satisfied, he put the supplies to the side and sat down next to America on the hotel bed. Light was seeping through the musty curtains to his right side – not that it mattered that much anyway, America's eyes were ruined at the moment – and it made a thick line on the bedspread. England looked at it before speaking.

"I don't know why, then."

America turned his head towards the sound of England's voice, shoulders sagging. "I can't keep on having no eyesight, Arthur."

England reached over and pulled America's hands out, touching their fingertips together. "I know," he said. His stomach churned. Bandages didn't look good on a man that was going to be a major player in the conference room discussion the next day.

"…Do you remember after World War I?"

"Of course."

"It took a week…no, longer…to get back your eye, right?"

"Mine was completely gone, but yes. Had to take it out so a new one could grow."

"Maybe there's something with eyes…"

"Possibly." England looked worriedly to America. "Are you sure-"

"—I'm attending the meeting, Art."

"Definitely? We could cover; say you've suddenly become busy in Vietnam or something similar."

"No." His voice was firm. "I just won't talk. I'll listen, though. I can't miss. _I can't_."

America's voice bordered on a slight panic once more. England shushed him. "I'm sure everything will be fine. Your eyesight will return soon."

"But what if it doesn't?"

"Don't think like that. It will."

America sighed. "It's so frustrating! It's…it's painful. I'm useless if I can't see."

"Alfred."

"What?"

"Please stop attacking yourself. You're perfectly fine. Foolish, but fine."

America whined, "It's not fair."

"I know, I know. Don't panic, though." A beat, and then, "Does Nixon know about it?"

"…No."

"You haven't called him yet?"

"I was hoping it would go away on its own…Oh, I don't know," America mumbled.

"Call him."

"I will later."

England found himself rubbing at his temples. "He'll worry."

"Exactly. He has enough to worry about."

"Why go over there, then? To that jungle?"

America would have widened his eyes, incredulous, if England could see them. "What, and not know where I'm sending my soldiers?"

England wanted to argue but there was something to that statement so he merely hummed in response. He was just about to tell America he was leaving to prepare for the conference when another thought crossed his mind, and it was somewhat more pressing than everything else.

"He's going to come to see you tonight, right?"

America's face remained emotionless. "Probably."

England picked a piece of lint off of his shirt; he didn't particularly _like_ it, the way America was with the very man that was his opposite in the worst way, but America still called him _Ivan_ and was closer to him more than anyone except perhaps England himself. England didn't have the heart to talk him out of it, not when he saw that soft, nearly invisible smile quirk on America's face when Russia was mentioned.

So England helped conceal the situation, even though visions of America in tears, angry and hurt and misunderstanding why Russia tossed him aside, wracked his mind. "…What will you do?"

America tilted his head to the side, his hand twitching up as if to adjust his glasses, and he spoke thoughtfully. "I haven't decided yet."

England and America both knew there were a million other questions England could – and should – be asking. England didn't do anything but clap America on the back and stand, though.

"He'll have to know sometime, since you're going to the meeting, but you can't predict his actions."

"I can," America breathed. "I can predict Ivan's actions."

_But not Russia's, not the Soviet Union's, you can't know what he will privately gather from this. _England held his tongue. "Do you need anything more?"

"Describe the layout of the room to me."

"When you walk in the door, it's about fifteen steps to the bed, which is in the far right corner. There's a window behind you, and the desk is across, to the left. I've put your suitcase at the foot of the bed. It's open. Would you like me to come in and help you undress later? I've taken the room next door."

"Yeah, okay," America said. "Light a cig for me?"

England obliged, handing the small lit stub to America. "You don't smoke often."

"I don't go blind often."

"Don't be an idiot and burn yourself."

America grinned. "Got no eyesight, and you're worried about fag burns that will heal in five minutes?"

"Let's not test your healing power in other areas, alright?"

America's grinned slipped away, and the air became somber. "I'll be next door," England said again, checking America's bandages one last time before stepping towards the door. "Shout if you need anything."

"You know I will." America lifted the cigarette to his face again, fingers trembling, barely noticeable. "And Arthur? Thanks, okay?"

"Of course." England shut the door behind him, leaving America in the dark. There was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling around him, as though he were going to be attacked at any moment. Pressure on the eyes, nothing but a scrambling black.

America laid down and felt his body tremble in its solitude. He would never admit it, but he was scared. There was something about darkness that crushed him, and the thought of it lingering much longer was an uncomfortable one. If he were human it would be bad enough, but for the fastest healing nation in the world, the implications were entirely different.

* * *

It was night and America was huddled under blankets, where he would stay until England came the next morning to dress him up in a suit and take him down to the conference room.

He was waiting for the knock. Russia knocked two times during their nighttime visits, slow and quiet. America would always answer before the third. When America was going into Russia's rooms he knocked more rapidly, on different parts of the wood, but it wasn't long until Russia opened the door either.

Now in the suffocating silence he waited. He waited for what felt like hours, trying to keep his body still. Usually he would read – never work, but read – until Russia showed up, but that option wasn't open to him yet.

He didn't feel anything at all. Pain would be welcome, at this point, because it might mean _something_ was going on in his skull to _fix_ his useless eyes. There was nothing. He wrapped his mind around the problem. There was never a time when he hadn't healed quickly, and this wasn't even the worst of the injuries he had received – glass in the eye was entirely different from his guts spilled out across sand.

(Right?)

He was jolted when the first knock came, and then the second. America froze, uncertain of what to say, because suddenly he didn't want Russia near him, he didn't want his worry, his _touch. _The third came tentatively, and America's heart thudded in his chest.

Russia didn't dare speak in the hallway, so America wasn't surprised when he opened the door, sliding in nearly silent and hovering.

"Alfred? Are you asleep?"

_No. _"Not in the mood tonight, Ivan," America said.

Russia paused, and America could almost hear his frown. "You've never said that before," he murmured.

"I had a long flight and I'm just…tired. Can you please go?"

"Where did you come from?"

"I was just in 'Nam." America stumbled into the truth and he wanted to curse himself; he and Russia were very careful about saying anything that related to the world directly when alone.

"Ah." Russia shifted, and America had the sense he was leaning against the door. America knew that posture; his ankles would be crossed, along with his arms. "Are you certain…?"

"Yes. Please go." America's voice was rough now, and he coughed. Wonderful.

"Are you alright?" Russia asked, his voice somewhat quiet. Worried, then. Russia probably thought him to be sick.

America wanted to laugh from how absurd that question sounded when you looked at the whole thing. He suddenly was very glad he couldn't see even Russia's outline in the dark. Not even the line of his back or the way his fingers would be curled crooked.

"Just fine," America replied.

Russia pushed himself off of the wall and walked a little closer. America immediately said, "No, don't come closer," forcing his voice to remain flat.

Russia stopped, and America could feel his growing concern. "Has something hap-"

"No, of course not. I just want to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Are you sure?"

"One hundred percent, sugar. I'm sorry, but I'm just not up for anything tonight." America's tongue felt heavy with the lie.

It would be so easy to invite Russia to bed, to feel him smooth his touch over the bandages, and for America to use his hands to find the other's body and draw him close. But then there was the fact Russia would wonder and question and maybe even pity, and that thought made America want to curl away from the man. What he was doing was a mistake, but he couldn't backtrack now.

Never mind what the injury meant when they both really thought about it, how it would border dangerously on questions about near-war and relations and the nationhood they knew.

America made up his mind there, afraid Russia would act differently because of the knowledge. Maybe it would break the small thing they shared. Tomorrow morning at the meeting he would know anyway.

(And that would be better, right? To show the difference, to make it clear this problem wasn't any of _Ivan's _business.)

"Alright," Russia said. "Alright, Alfred, I will – I will see you tomorrow, yes."

He sounded hurt, and that sliver of worry was still underlying. America shut his useless eyes and felt terrible, but he didn't relent.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he said, as Russia opened the door.

Russia lingered for a moment. "Lock the door behind me, please. I don't want…"

He trailed off, and America made a noise of affirmation, even though he wouldn't because England needed to get in the room when morning came. Guilt washed over him in a torrent, so he imagined Russia – Ivan – really was there with him, curled against his chest or wide against America's back, anything.

* * *

"Now we're turning left, okay?"

America nodded. England's hand curled around his wrist, guiding America to the conference room with careful footsteps. He heard the babble of languages before England told them they had arrived. The conference room, America knew, would be divided into three sections. While no one said it explicitly, America and his allies and anyone else leaning that way would be on one side of the room, and it was the same with Russia and his union to the opposite. Everyone else was in the middle, and the nation hosting the conference would dictate who was speaking from the front.

That was France's job this year; they were in a frosty winter Paris. As they entered the room America heard his voice first, and it was a relief against the sharp, steep cut of sound.

England spoke quietly to France. America did his best to stand up straight and smile; it was so _odd_ only hearing without the proof of color – but his stomach was sitting heavily. He hadn't heard a voice speaking Russian yet, and America was somewhat glad he would not have to see the look on Russia's face when he caught sight of the other nation.

"…So we're going to just…Well, he'll listen, and then after the morning session I'm taking him to place a call to his president," England was saying.

"Of course," France murmured. America felt deep cut eyes regarding him curiously. Suddenly America felt a tug on his tie; France's nimble fingers were redoing the knot. "I'm not going to ask if you're alright, don't worry. I can't say you won't receive attention, but I won't draw an unnecessary amount to you."

America felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards France. "Thanks."

They moved away. America could not begin to absorb how odd it was to hear the chatter cease, feel the stares, and then listen to it creep up again, now with his name and words like _injury _and _how _and _when. _

"Ignore them all, ignore them," England said, and he squeezed America's hand.

"It's not them I'm worried about," America admitted. They finally reached America's chair, and England helped him into it before sitting down himself.

"He's not here yet, then?"

"No." England's voice was crisp and flat, the type he adopted during meetings.

A few minutes passed with various countries passing by America, posing him questions and offering sympathy. America recognized most by the sound of their voice, their accent, and he replied the same way each time. "I'm fine, thanks! Really, it's just a bit of healing with bad timing. Nothing to worry about."

Some of them were satellite states of the Soviet Union, and America's stomach twisted more with each voice that _wasn't _Russia's. Finally he heard France's voice saying, "Ah, Mr. Soviet Union, so pleased to see you once more. How are you?"

As Russia responded he thought he might throw up; he wanted so badly to apologize for last night, but he didn't dare. He felt Russia's eyes settle on him. The Slavic nation looked for a long time, and America tried to understand the pieces of the gaze from how his neck prickled in the back, and how Russia tapped his fingers lightly on his belt.

To almost any other nation, America knew, this looked like Russia was appraising his enemy. America knew – hoped – it was more than that, that Russia's eyes were clouded just slightly by worry. He would probably be disgusted later.

The man moved away finally, towards his seat, and the meeting began.

America became bored very quickly without eyesight to follow the mouths of the individuals speaking. He listened when it was Russia's voice talking but otherwise tuned everyone out, because America watched body language more than anything for bits of _lying_, _doesn't believe this_, is _nervous_, _tired_, _worried, _and without it the words were empty shells.

From time to time Russia looked at him. America felt it on the back of his neck, bunched in his shoulders. He could see in his mind's eye the way Russia's facial expression was; a poker face if he ever saw one. He would be writing on a pad with his left hand in heavy strokes, the Cyrillic that looked to America awkward and bulky, never mind that when Russia spoke it he sounded wind breathing nimbly over treetops.

* * *

America was free from the conference room after three and a half hours, but he was not free from England and Nixon and the black phone that England asked the desk if they could borrow.

"I can't believe you made me do that," America groused. England tugged on his sleeve and if America could see he would notice England rolling his eyes. They were in the hotel lobby, an ornate old room set with high windows. Spotless white tiles clicked against their shoes as they walked.

"Look, you couldn't keep him in the dark."

"Wow, you sound so clever! Look at that."

"Shut it," England retorted. "That wasn't what I meant and you know it."

America hummed, taking the small victory. He knew England's brow would be bunched up comically and laughter bubbled to his lips. England looked at him strangely and muttered to himself something America couldn't quite catch.

"You going to buy me lunch, Artie?"

"I believe that frog, France, wants to eat with us, so yes."

"Awesome," America said. He bit the inside of his lip and thought for a moment before asking England, "How did Iv—Russia look at the meeting?"

"The same as always," England said. He raised his hand in greeting to France.

"Oh." America's heart sunk a bit.

England caught all the feelings in his utterance and rolled them around his mind before responding. "He really couldn't have done anything, Al."

"I know, but…"

"But what?"

"…I thought he might be worried or something. I don't know…" America was flushed slightly by the end of his sentence.

England's voice was gentle in response. "I'm sure he was, but it would have been a bit of a problem if nations thought that, right?"

"Yeah." A sigh. "I know."

Footsteps neared; France had arrived. "I know a place in this quarter I think we would all enjoy," he said, and soon they were walking throughout the Parisian streets, France and England like a pair of bodyguards to America.

Later, he thought, as he ate the food France had ordered for him – some thick soup – that maybe he felt a stirring behind his eyes. But it was fleeting and soon they felt dead once more.

America swallowed around the dark and listened to the chatter surrounding him.

* * *

America wasn't sure if he should be waiting up for Russia or not, but he did it anyway. His mind was a bag of scattered marbles rolling into hard to find recesses and he couldn't have slept even if he wanted to, so he breathed in and out on his side and thought of too many things to count.

He thought of the jungles in Vietnam, of the snarls and shouts and fire and smoke and the whirl of his airplane while it fell. He thought of how he hung, suspended, unworried, before he rushed down, and then how everything had turned dark and how it stayed that way. How he had first thought it was night but then felt the blood welling in his eyes, and how he stayed where he was in shaking thought until some of his men found and identified him. How worried they had sounded!

He thought private thoughts too, of the way Russia's collarbone would dig against his neck some mornings, and how there would often be typewriter ink staining the other man's fingertips. He thought of the thick shag of hair that tickled his chest or the back of his neck as he tried to fall asleep, and he thought of the small red notebook Russia carried like a good luck charm (it held notes on chess and scribbled lines of poetry). He thought of these things each time as something of _Ivan's,_ not Russia's, and before he knew it the knock came.

Russia didn't wait for America to answer the door. He walked right through with long, purposeful strides. America wet his lip in preparation for an explanation, but then Russia was at his bedside.

There was a click; Russia had turned on the side table's lamp. Before America could tell him to stay away, the other man had run his hand across the snowy white bandage and eased it off. It fell down to America's collarbone. Russia ripped it away and flung it backwards.

His hands were very cold as he stroked America's hair.

"Don't touch me," America rasped, trying to turn away.

"Why shouldn't I?" Russia continued to touch America's hair and once or twice the place right above the younger man's eyes. He took in a long, shuddering breath.

"You shouldn't even be seeing me like this, so please don't touch it and make it worse…"

"How did it happen?"

"Ivan, please."

"I want an answer, Alfred."

Alfred felt his fists curl at his sides in a sudden surge of energy. "My plane fell out of the fucking sky and I busted my eyes open. The actual eyeballs healed somewhat, but I can't see a thing."

"How long ago?"

"Three days."

"Why did you leave me to find out in the meeting, in front of everyone?" There was a sharp edge to Russia's tone now, and America could imagine the hurt.

"I don't even want you here now," America blurted out, and he froze a moment later when he realized what he had said.

Russia's hands stilled. "Oh, so I should leave? Forgive me for being concerned for you, _Alfred_."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh? Care to enlighten me, then, on the new usage of those words?"

"Ivan, I don't-"

"—Do you know how worried I was this morning?" Russia growled. "Do you even – can you fathom how much of a shock it was to see you _blind_ and knowing the night before you had been sitting alone and refusing to see me? Does that mean anything to you?"

America breathed in sharply. "You were worried."

Russia muttered something in Russian, a curse, probably. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know."

"You doubted I would care about the fact you're injured? Why would you think that?"

America didn't answer right away. He jerked to the side, out of Russia's touch, and mumbled, "It's weak."

"What is?"

"Being injured after three days. Being…useless. I can't do anything without my eyes. I didn't know what you would say…"

America heard a shift and felt the bed creak; Russia sat down next to him. "It's not like you will be blind forever, but Alfred, _I_ don't care. I'm obviously worried, but I don't think it makes you weak."

"But I've never taken this long to heal. Ever."

Russia leaned down, as though he were about to brush a kiss to America's temple, and America growled in warning, "_Don't_."

"You refuse to be comforted. Fine." Russia didn't leave, though, and for a few minutes the two men just breathed in and out.

"It's so queer, not being able to see you."

Russia hummed quietly. His hand skittered to America's shoulder before retracting. "This will not last long. It can't. Although there's something about the eyes..."

America's lips quirked up.

"What is it?" Russia asked.

"Nothing. Just something I was saying to Arthur this morning."

Silence once more.

"Did I have anything to do-"

_Indirectly, you probably did_, America wanted to say, _but it wasn't like you were the one that shot my plane from the sky. _"No. And even if you did…We don't bring it up here."

Russia dug into his breast pocket and brought out his notebook. "You're going to be well soon, Alik." Some tension in the air broke, leaving both of them like a wave receding from the shore. Russia's words left no room for doubt.

"You're certain?" America said anyway.

"As I am in the fact your eyes are blue." Russia's voice wavered, caught in the near-compliment, before continuing. "Now, you really should rest – that's important for any injury."

"Not really tired." America yawned. "Promise me you'll go back to your room."

"In a little while."

"It would be so bad for you to be caught, man. _So_ bad."

Russia chuckled lightly. "Go to sleep, Alfred."

"I can't sleep with you staring at me."

"I'm not staring at you."

"Yes you are. I can feel it."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm writing."

"…Did you get that last poem – the one about the dying guard dog – right yet?"

"I was writing that six months ago."

"Exactly, that's the last time I saw you."

"That long? I did finish it, though."

"Can I hear it?" America shifted closer to the sound of Russia's voice.

"Now you're just avoiding what I've asked you to do," Russia teased. His pen scratched across the page. Crossed a line out. His tongue poked out a bump in his cheek as he re-read the first stanza at the top.

"Maybe." America grinned up at the ceiling. "But I do want to hear it."

"It's long," Russia warned.

"You _do_ have the tendency to beat a dead horse."

Russia snorted. "Hardly. The death is not quick."

America slid his palms across the bedspread. "You're crazy, sweetheart. But still…read it. Might make me fall asleep."

Russia grumbled good-naturedly before starting to read.

America privately thought Russia had the nicest reading voice he had ever heard. It reacted to each of the words like they were bright new things. His voice carried. It was soft and high and rough and low and _right_, simply right, and America never tired of hearing his voice in any language. Russia never translated any of what he wrote, so when America curled up, closed his eyes, and began to listen to Russia talk, it was all in his language. America knew that Russian lent itself well to rhyme, so he counted the internal and external amounts until his breathing became lax.

Russia read the entire poem and when he finished, he kissed the top of America's head lightly. The veins in America's eyelids were light blue, and Russia had to fight the urge to trace across them. America would wake up if he did.

_"The hound stood on haunches and whined at the ground/his muzzle was wet and the blood was abound..." _

* * *

When America woke up the next morning he had regained his eyesight.

He opened his eyes and light poured in. He was confused at the start but then broke out into a grin, sitting up on the old mattress and bouncing. (He had long given up trying to understand why things like this happened the way that they did.) The sheets from the bed pooled around his waist. He rubbed furiously at his eyes; everything was blurry but it was _there_, and America had never been so happy to see a hotel room in his life.

To his right Russia sat slumped in a chair, his head lolled against his shoulder. When America noticed him his gaze grew soft around the edges – Russia had stayed like a guard dog, respectful of the distance America wanted. Russia's suit shirt was crumpled and his notebook lay open in his lap. His pale hair was mussed around the ear pressed to his shoulder.

Russia was not a heavy sleeper, so when America began to move about he quickly roused himself, eyes narrowing and taking in the room. When he saw America their eyes met, and both of them grinned.

"Morning," America said. He was in the process of putting on the glasses England had set on the table the day before. "I guess – er – sleep is good every once in awhile."

"Your eyes are clear," Russia breathed. He sat up properly and ran an absent hand through his hair.

"Yep, I suppose so." America beckoned him over. Russia sat down on the edge of the bed, catching America in his grasp when the younger man launched himself forward. He kissed Russia square on the mouth and pushed them both back; Russia's belt was digging into his lower stomach but he didn't care, he could _see_ -

Russia kissed back enthusiastically, happy to let America lead. "You bastard, you must have magic or something – I'm healed," America babbled.

"I'm sure you did it all on your own," Russia replied, massaging America's back. "I wasn't a factor at all."

"Eyesight, I have eyesight," America chanted. "None of what Nixon said mattered, ha!"

"What did he say?"

"Serious nation stuff," America mumbled, and he bit Russia's lower lip puckishly.

"Always tragic to deal with."

America rolled his eyes and pushed himself off Russia. He looked up at the water stained, cracked ceiling and laughed from pure rush. "There must be something with the eyes, but thank goodness, thank goodness, thank the fucking _lord _I have them back."

"An able bodied enemy is always more interesting," Russia mused.

"Damnit, Ivan," America said lightly. "That was uncalled for."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to mention it to anyone like that. You know."

"You had better not." America flopped over to his belly and kicked his legs up. "Your poem put me right to bed, buddy. Show me the whole thing sometime?"

"Sure," Russia said, turning over to the side and burying his face in America's hair. America wriggled out of his grasp and practically jumped on the other man; his eyes were streaming and blue in the morning light, flecked dozens of shades. Russia studied him for a moment and America let him, turning his head to the side and adjusting his glasses so they stood at the end of his nose comically.

Then he leaned down and touched his forehead to Russia's. "You shouldn't be here." His breath puffed in Russia's ear. "Why didn't you leave?"

"Worry," Russia said, and gave America a lopsided grin.

"It's late, you know. Late. And we can't be seen together."

"You can leave first, and then I will leave. If anyone is walking down the hallway, they'll assume I'm bugging your room or something."

"Sneaky," America smirked. "Like spies."

"If you want. What's the time?"

America glanced at the clock. "Says 9:45…That late, huh? Neither of us normally sleep after five."

"Need to hurry, then. You should get a move on, the meeting is at ten thirty, and I need to change too."

"I've perfected the two minute shower." America kissed Russia and stood. He stretched. "Wonder why Arthur didn't come in."

"He probably did, but then saw I was in here," Russia replied.

"Good man."

"Indeed."

"You going to take that shower?"

"Yes…" America was caught blinking at Russia, who looked handsome with the sun burning bright around his head like a halo. America shook his head and then gave Russia a silly little salute before scampering off to the bathroom, only to run out a moment later.

"Thanks. Um, yeah. For spending the night."

Russia smiled at America. "It was my pleasure. Always is."

"I don't want this to ever change." Standing in his shorts and a t-shirt with mussed hair, America could barely imagine this private little thing going away, but one could never be so sure.

"Me neither. I suppose we'll just have to protect it."

America grinned and really sauntered into the bathroom this time. The most comforting thing in the world to him was knowing where he was, to be able to pin-point his position, sharp and clear. And now, in the morning filled with _light_: he was in a hotel room with Russia, in Paris, and there was a high possibility they would screw up and a terribly wrong situation would develop. But it was also warm and sunny and Russia's eyes had never looked lovelier – America was happy, so happy. He straightened the line of his back as he stepped into the shower. Light was flashing off of the porcelain like a smattering of dew.

* * *

This story is set a few days after a major offensive assault on American bases in South Vietnam on February 22nd, 1969. South Vietnamese towns were hit as well and fighting occurred all over South Vietnam. Eventually the Americans overwhelmed the Vietcong offensive with airpower and artillery.

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story.


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